“My point is that though our claim is sound, though Henry is the interloper, we are about to plunge Elben into civil war. Deposing a king is never clean, and it is never without bloodshed. Songs are sung of the Massacre of Pilvreen. Think of the songs they will sing about what is to come, and tell me I am wrong to be reticent.”
Silence falls across the space. A glittering silence that fills the building with dread. Cleves tips her head back and stares up at the rafters. In that moment, she can sense the history of the building. It was indeed a holy place, for what is a holy place but a space where grief and joy can exist together in the presence of awe?
Parr stands. She takes Cleves’s hands, squeezes them, then turns to the others. She addresses not their fellow monarchs, but those standing behind them. “What Queen Cleves has so bravely said affects all of us, but we queens have the most to gain from victory. I believe that our way forward can only be accomplished with the blessing of those who will not win a throne. It is not too late for us to change course: we could all of us flee Elben, and leave it to Henry and Cernunnos.”
Aragon stirs. “You may flee, but I shall not. My daughter is owed her inheritance.”
Cleves wonders whether she knows that those are the words Boleyn might well have spoken were she still alive.
One of the Feorwans – taller and broader than Clarice next to them – steps forward. “We will throw in our lot with you, in the hope of a kinder future for our lands. You talk of bloodshed, Queen Cleves: Elben may have been free of it under the king’s rule, but Feorwa has seen plenty.”
Cleves suspects that less bloodshed is not all they hope for. A weakened Elben in the wake of a civil war will, after all, be less able to keep hold of their colonies. This is a play for independence. While the royal in her may baulk, the part of her that has sought for so long to build her own little fortress understands only too well.
Syndony raises a hand next, commanding attention with that simple gesture as though she too were a queen. “My childhood was spent in the worst kind of penury. I have no parents, for they left me on the steps of a sanctuary when I was a babe. I learned at a tender age that Cernunnos is not merciful. I learned that nobility is not either, unless it can wring something from you. I found work as a washerwoman at Brynd, and I listened and I learned. I bore children and I raised them and I taught them to listen and to learn also. Forty years later, I became stewardess of Brynd, and not once did I hold any loyalty in my heart to anyone but my own family.”
Princess Elizabeth looks up at her. “Then mother.”
“That is right, little princess,” Syndony says, her voice softening. “Then I met your mother. My point is, you have asked.” Cleves cannot ever imagine Syndony weeping, but the woman is blazing with unshed emotion now. “You have asked, Queen Parr, Queen Cleves, as Queen Boleyn chose to ride to her death rather than force her people to fight for her.Thatsecures my loyalty, and the loyalty of my people.”
The glittering stillness is with them, around them once more. Cleves can almost taste it – the feeling of the phoenix and its majesty, the sunlit glory of that memory.
“Well,” she says, her throat thick. “If we are agreed, then I have one final suggestion to make.”
“Go on,” Syndony says.
Cleves swallows. “We must let Henry find out that Seymour and I will be at High Hall.”
She raises her hands to quell the inevitable protests. “Listen to me, I beg of you. When Seymour and I almost killed Henry, he was triumphant at having found us out. I think it has become an obsession of his to prove that he will not be hoodwinked again by any of his wives.”
Aragon nods. “I can see that being true.”
Cleves continues: “We have fed him a believable lie about the binding cloths. He believes that spilling our lifeblood upon the cloths will secure his theft of Medren’s power. He has believed it because it appears to place us in great danger.”
“It does place us in great danger,” Aragon says. “If all does not go to plan, we all of us will have our throats cut before the nobility of Elben.”
“But he also knows that we need the binding cloths in order to separate ourselves from him. He will be at his most insecure that night,” Cleves says. “The weakest part of our plan is that Seymour and I have no clear way of getting to our own cloths. We merely hoped that we would be able to reach them once the others are brought to the banqueting hall. But what if we were standing beside all of you? What if Mistress Syndony found a way of letting Cromwell know that Seymour and I are planning to infiltrate the ball in order to steal them?”
Parr seems to trace the plan with her fingers. “We make Henry think that he has triumphed. He thinks that the divine power will be entirely his with each queenly throat he cuts. He is already desperate to capture you both for your treachery. That desperation will blind him to our deceit.”
Howard leans forward. “I do not know if it is a double deception or a triple deception, but either way, I think it will work.”
Everyone turns towards Seymour. “If you say no, then it shall be a no,” Cleves says.
She cannot riddle Seymour’s expression. It is pregnant with … what? Praise? Desire? Whatever it is, she finds no doubt in it.
“It is a good plan,” Seymour says eventually.
Aragon taps the armrest of her throne. “Very well. We should all be returning to our households. We have already tarried too long.”
“Wait,” Howard says. She trips into the centre of the circle. “I do not care if you think it silly. I want us all to take hands before we leave this place. The next time we see each other will be at High Hall and on the brink of victory or despair. But in this place of all places we ought to recognise our sisterhood.”
Cleves readily takes her hand. When did their little songbird grow so bold as to command her fellow queens? One by one, the others follow. Parr, and then Seymour, facing Cleves in the circle. And finally, her chair pushed by the Princess Tudor, Aragon. She grips Cleves’s remaining hand with iron strength.
“Five united,” Cleves says, echoing the oracle’s words that brought Boleyn to their doors. She thinks of Mary, to the east of the island, in her lonely castle at Brynd. Poor, deluded woman, to set herself apart in such a way by betraying her own sister and denying the goddess who could give her so much more than a castle and a mere consort’s crown.
“Goddess. Medren,” Howard says, her eyes closed. “If you can hear me, shine your favour upon us. Know that we work to free you, and to return your land to you.”
The answer is almost instant. Aragon flinches, utters a little, “Oh”. To the rest of them, who have felt the divine power before, it is surprising but not shocking.
